Legends
by RapiDe
Summary: Welcome to the first year of the Batman's life, there is always more to know..


**Legal disclaimers: Anything and anyone mentioned here which is copyright DC Comics is just that. I make no claim on them, this is a totally fictional story using Batman and supporting characters done for the entertainment of readers only. I have no intention of even attempting to make any money off of this and never will attempt to do so. The only things which belong to me are the original storylines which occur here and the character Asp/Helena Corleone. If you want to borrow them, ask. **

_Okay, I've been asked to clarify a few things before I write this story, so I'll start out by doing so._

_First: This is the first part of a mini-series of four stories, and is set twelve years back, during "Batman: Year One". The Batman is just getting started out in Gotham, Gordon is still a Lieutenant in the GCPD and Harvey Dent is currently Assistant District Attorney._

_Second: Sarah Essen, who becomes Gordon's Wife later on, appears here. I know that she appears to have red hair and green eyes in the later comics, but in "Batman: Year One" she is portrayed with blue eyes and blond hair. I've decided to go with her original look, so if you complain please remember this._

_Third: Chronology, that all-important much mucked-around thing. Well, here's how I'm working it. "Batman: Year One" ends with Gordon being promoted to Captain, the Batman becoming his unofficial ally and Harvey Dent becoming District Attorney. Four months after this "The Long Halloween" occurs, which wipes out most of the characters of Year One. _

_This is followed, after a two-month break, by "Batman: Dark Victory", in which the Falcone family is annihilated, along with almost every surviving character from Year One. During "Batman: Dark Victory" Bruce Wayne meets and effectively adopts Dick Grayson, eight going on nine at the time, after the death of his parents in the Circus "accident" that killed them. _

_Ten years after Year One, which covers almost the whole Batman timeline so far, "Cataclysm" hits Gotham, leading directly into "No Mans Land". This is the eleventh year Batman holds the line, based on "No Mans Land" lasting for a year. Forward another year, to the present, Dick Grayson is about to turn twenty and a third Robin exists. Oracle became the original Batgirl in the fourth year of Batman's mission, aged sixteen, remaining in the role for four years. She then retired and was shot by the Joker. She has been Oracle for three years now, after spending about a year dealing with what happened to her and creating her new identity. In this timeline I have Gordon adopting her after her parents death at age fifteen, in the third year of Batman's mission. In real time this places "Batman: Year One" in 1990, as I'm sure your aware, but this is a fictional multiverse so I'm sure that we can all quietly ignore that._

_Last: If you want a real person to base Helena Corleone/Asp on so that you can "see" her, Gabrielle Richens is the closest physical match I can think of. _

If you have any specific queries ask rather than shout, please, I'm perfectly happy to clarify if required.

"_**Lost and Found" **(Part One)_

_**Shadows Of Future Night**_

"So I said to him "Little Tony said that? Well, you tell Little Tony that I say this!" Then I gave him the picture of Tony's sister and Johnny Viti on his sisters wedding day, the one with the branding iron. Yeah, I had no problems after that-!"

"Sal said _what_?! But I _told_ him that Sofia Gigante is still in the cage! What does he want me to do, get shot-?!"

"Yes, I do love the dress, lady. You'd look better out of it, though, and I know just the place-"

"No, I do _not_ care whose brother you are unless you know the Roman. That's Lucia Viti your looking at, man, have you even _heard_ what her brother does to people who eye her up without her permission-?!"

Gently pushing his way through the crowded room, he automatically noted every word that was said, every deal that was struck. Tall, with ice-blue eyes, hair as black as pitch and the body of Casanova in most of the women's opinions, he slowly made his way towards the balcony that the Falcones, the Maroni's and the Viti's were meeting on.

He was wearing an extremely expensive tuxedo, purely for appearances sake, and his manners were perfect. He met and greeted every woman, then her husband, like they were old friends. He had a friendly word or two for every child, he carried a full glass of champagne in his right hand as he glided through the crowds with effortless grace, which he sipped from occasionally, and a smile was always on his face. His charm was evident on his handsome face, bright-if otherwise almost empty-eyes and mouth always full of fun, lewd glances shooting the way of every woman in the room when her husband wasn't looking.

Slightly tanned skin and a perfectly fitted suit did nothing to conceal the smooth play of muscle underneath, either, a fact which had earned him three propositions from women, two married, already this evening. His name was Bruce Wayne, the only child of Thomas and Martha Wayne, sadly long deceased, and, in his mid-twenties, full of youthful energy with the fortune of a billionaire at his disposal, he was the Playboy Prince of Gotham City.

He was _the_ most eligible bachelor in the City, and there wasn't a single high society woman in the room who didn't know it. They also knew, of course, that he was the last man that they were ever likely to snare. He'd supposedly been courted by royalty in Europe, been propositioned by more Models than most people would ever even meet and slept his way around so many households about the world that his Butler was the only man alive who knew the exact number. His Butlers Memoirs were being sought, in fact, by no less than seven major publishers before he'd written even a single word. Not one woman had ever managed to hold on to him for any longer than a month, though, for some reason. Not that that would ever stop them trying...

Almost no one in the room would ever have guessed that the playboy act was just that. Or that, in reality, those dull eyes did not conceal a dim mind, but, in fact, the absolute opposite, one of the sharpest minds that the world had ever known. A mind so sharp that it would, one day, lead to its owner being named, rightly, the worlds greatest detective. Toned muscles and skills learnt during eighteen years of training made Bruce Wayne, when he chose to be, a warrior almost without equal, a man whom some of the greatest fighters in the world would one day seek out to test themselves against. Added to his fortune, with the resources it put at his disposal, he became one of the most dangerous men alive.

When he was in uniform, though, was when all of that ceased to matter, when the man took a step back and the Batman stepped forth, a figure of urban myth and legend, the humanity of which some questioned. Only two people present in the great ballroom would ever connect the two, though, and he would only know it of one of them.

With a tiny microphone in his shirt pocket that, aimed the way he was facing, could pick up the slightest murmur and transmit it to the micro-receiver hidden in his ear, he could hear the conversation of anyone in the room. He could record it, too, on a tape that was hidden under his shirt under his left arm, placed in such a way against his chest that one would have had to run a finger over it literally to gain even the slightest suspicion that something was wrong. He was Bruce Wayne at the moment, yes, but the Batman never slept, and he was very busy at the moment, sifting through casual comment and thoughtless innuendo for the hint that everyone else would miss.

So far, he had picked up enough information from casual conversations to be sure that careful anonymous tip-offs to Lieutenant James Gordon would see one major burglary, two muggings and a medium-sized drugs shipment-which Batman would be attending as well-foiled successfully. It had to be the overworked, under pressure Lieutenant, unfortunately, because almost all of the rest of the corrupt GCPD couldn't be trusted. With the noticeable exceptions of Assistant DA Harvey Dent and officer Stan Merkel, who didn't have the authority to get things moving. It was a situation he fully intended to do something about in short order, but, for now, he had to content himself with the little fish. After all, the big ones, like Carmine "The Roman" Falcone, Godfather of Gotham crime, would get what was coming to them in due course. It was only a matter of time.

He casually shifted to look around the room as he walked towards the first-floor balcony, the elevators being a mere ten feet away, the bright lights of the huge room illuminating the night sky above through the coloured glass roof above. On his left, most of the way across the huge room, Lieutenant James Gordon, with his wife, the heavily pregnant Barbara Gordon, was meeting some of the lesser nobility of Gothams criminal aristocracy. Gordon was almost twenty years older than his own twenty-four, with a chestnut moustache and thinning hair atop his head. Thin steel-rim glasses with a brass sheen sat over his dark-brown eyes, while he was wearing a well kept, if old, tuxedo. His wife, a woman with auburn hair, hazel eyes and a worn face that made her look older than her mid-thirties age, was wearing a loose, evidently let-out black floor-length dress that had also seen better days. She'd been striking, once, and was still attractive, but ten years of being a policeman's wife, not knowing day-to-day whether or not she'd ever see the man she loved again at the end of it, and worse, had taken their toll.

Commissioner of Police Gillian B. Loeb was up on the balcony with the Falcones, the ruling family in Gotham. He was a squat, fat man, short and soft, in his late forties with a little black hair left, close-cut, around the back of his head like a crown. His face and head were always red with the effort required to move around thanks to his weak muscles, his breathing not being good either. He had lived life to the full for all of his forty-eight years, but had also indulged in drugs and too many rich foods when he was young, facts which were which were catching up with him now.

Detective Flass, his real second in command, was standing guard just outside the balcony area. Flass was ex-Green Beret, a big man over six feet tall with blond hair, blue eyes and alley cat morals. Him first, then everyone else, unless it benefited him, which being a Police officer in Gotham did. He was wearing a brand new tuxedo and polished black shoes, almost as though he was an honour guard, without the uniform, from back in his army days. He was chatting to a stunning blond woman and a very attractive brunette, his body language added to the look on his face making it very clear that he expected to take both home tonight. In all likelihood he would, since, as he'd once told Jim Gordon, his own Lieutenant, "Cops got it made in Gotham".

Focusing on the balcony itself, not missing a gesture or word as he flirted with a beautiful raven-haired temptress whose smouldering blue eyes reminded him of a young prostitute he'd met down in the dirt-poor area of Gotham-his first scouting mission to get the lay of the land, come to think of it-he ran through a mental checklist of who was and wasn't present. Old man Carmine "The Roman" Falcone himself, of course, a man in his mid forties with grey hair and moustache, blue eyes, the half-fit bulk of a tall man who enjoyed rich food and a look that only Italian blood gave one, swarthy, aged good looks obvious. Then there was Sal "The Boss" Maroni, a big, muscular man in his late thirties with thick black hair and hazel-brown eyes, his face too rounded to be called pleasing. He was Falcones main rival, but he was here by invitation, mainly since, if he was stupid enough to try anything at all, there was no way that he would leave the balcony alive.

As only the Assistant DA Harvey Dent wasn't present, but was, in all probability, outside taking names and numbers for future reference-when he became full DA and could book them all, that was. A decision both he and the Batman had long since agreed on. There was only one last face who should have been present, but she wasn't, which made him frown inside. Carla Viti, Falcones sister, leader of the Viti family in Chicago, should have been present at such a gathering, but she wasn't. Why? He looked closer, and quickly recognised two of the three other individuals present.

Johnny Viti, son of Sofia, a man who looked as though he belonged to a much earlier time with a physique which could easily be compared to a Neanderthals. He was so muscular that his suit strained at the seams, small blue eyes evident in a flat, almost ape-like face, auburn hair resting atop his head like a mop. He was easily the most dangerous of the men on the balcony, a physically powerful stone-cold killer who always carried a switchblade and would do absolutely anything if his mother or uncle told him too. The Batman strongly suspected that he wasn't entirely sane, a suspicion only reinforced by his actions more often than not.

The last but one was Lucia Viti, a young woman in her late twenties with legs to die for and a body to kill for. Curving like an hourglass in all the right places in a way which made men's mouths water, she had short-cut chestnut-brown hair falling to her shoulders, soft cloud-grey doe eyes and perfect features that made men follow her around like a Dog on all fours. She was wearing an exorbitantly expensive sheer pitch-black dress that flowed rather than fell over her curves, cut up the left side almost to her hip to show off a toned leg and tanned skin, cut down to show a little cleavage below her throat. Pearls surrounded her swan's neck, pearl earrings gleaming in her ears while, evident beneath thin sleeves, golden wristlets glinted in the light about her wrists. She looked and was stunningly beautiful, there was no question of that. She was, however, wearing more money than some of the poorer Gotham families would make in six months, though, so Bruce Wayne needed no reminding of why he was present himself.

Every one of the men was wearing an expensive tuxedo that had to have been bought within the last month, while Falcone was also wearing his wedding ring, gold inset with tiny dark-green emeralds. His wife had been killed, just like her killers, but he still wore it to remind people, and himself, of her. Sal was wearing a wedding ring of the same design inset with tiny blood-red rubies, for much the same effect and reason. Still one short, so Bruce calculated in his mind who was and was not present. Alberto Falcone, older son of Carmine: in his fathers Penthouse. Sofia Falcone-Gigante, Carmines daughter: in jail, doing time for assault. Mario Falcone, Carmine's younger son: abroad in Italy, deported years ago, would be arrested if he returned. Sal's two sons: working in their restaurant, they were barred from events like this formal gathering. The other two families would have been shot if they'd turned up without invitation. All of Carla Viti's children were present, even if she wasn't, so who was the last woman?

Four inches shorter than his six-two, jet-black hair that fell to her waist in smooth, silken strands, slightly curled gathered strands hanging over her face and about her ears. Eyes a luscious deep, dark brown, bee-stung lips full and red, built like Lucia Viti but even more curvaceous, she looked maybe even younger than Lucia herself. Skin colour a delicious dark chocolate brown, physique as though she worked out every day to the same kind of standard most world-class athletes did. She was wearing a deep, dark ruby-red dress that perfectly offset her dark skin, bringing out mahogany highlights so perfectly that it almost made one want to literally touch such perfection to be sure that it was real. It was cut up both sides to well-up her upper leg, allowing ease of movement, while the sleeveless dress was held on her shoulders by straps, falling neckline outlining a fine figure while giving a tantalising glimpse of what lay beneath.

A white-gold band designed like an Egyptian neck circlet encircled her lower throat, an inch tall, small ruby earrings illuminating her dark skin while white-golden clasps were set around her wrists, almost like bracelets warriors of old would use to protect their wrists. Years later, after he met Princess Diana of Thermiscrya, also known as Wonder Woman, he would also note that the design was very similar to Diana's own bracelets, although the dark-skinned woman's were, of course, purely decorative.

The woman looked, frankly, incredible, like royalty of old, and was far and away the most striking individual present. This, however, asides from raising his interests in her as a possible conquest if he could get her to talk that way, left him none the wiser as to her identity, which annoyed him. It meant that there was a hole in his knowledge of the families, since there was no way that such an individual could or would be invited to such an event unless she was either of the families or connected to one of them intimately. He considered it, thinking it through carefully. She was standing close to Lucia Viti, away from Sal, which meant that she wasn't simply the mans latest conquest. Falcone had had some high-class-and-cost prostitutes brought to his bed since his wife's death, but if he knew anything about women this one wasn't one of those, despite her–very obvious-beauty.

Johnny Viti had a reputation for being as brutal with his women as he was with his enemies, often leaving them crippled, or worse, but she was standing away from him as well. Besides which, given her evident physical development, he didn't doubt that she'd put up a fight if someone tried to force her to do anything against her will, a fact which Johnny would have simply killed her for. Since both of them were alive and well, that left Lucia Viti, whom, he was very sure, was into men... He felt like teaching himself the skills of a Detective all over again as the obvious answer abruptly arrived in his mind, despite the fact that it had actually been there all along. Inexperienced he was, yes, but there was no excuse for taking so long to make _that_ connection.

She was Lucia's _Bodyguard_, that was why he didn't know her. Well, a look into the Viti family finances would lead him straight back to her name in that case. When he had the time, he could easily find out the rest from there...

"I am sorry, Uncle Falcone, and convey momma's sincere apologies due to her failure to be present. She has been struck down with a mild influenza, so the Doctor advised her not to travel until she is better. Johnny and I have, of course, come in her place" said Lucia Viti, with a slight inclination of her head in respect to her Uncle. Her voice was soft, warm and pleasant, a slight Italian accent coming through her American one. Carmine Falcone looked at her for a long moment, then smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Of course, my favoured niece, my sister Carla should not do anything that might harm her health. You and your brother Johnny will, of course, do very well in her place. I do not know this lovely young lady, though, so, before we proceed, introductions are in order" replied Falcone, his tone of voice making it clear that he was giving an order, not making a request. His accent was strong Italian, mixed with a little American. His father had come from the old country of Sicily to this land, his beliefs shaping his sons entire life as he had grown up. Carmine "The Roman" Falcone had never regretted anything his father had ever done for or to him, ever.

"But of course" replied Lucia, shifting slightly and making a gesture which caused the young, dark-skinned woman to stride over to Falcone. He noted the strength and grace of her movements as she moved, studied her eyes and her face. He almost smiled, he knew a killer born when he saw one, just as he knew a soldier, and this one had a way about her he had rarely see before. It was what his own Bodyguard, Ramon Flores, called "The Eye of the Eagle".

The animal grace of her movements spoke of trained skill burnt into her mind and muscles over long hours of practice, all only adding to already-perfect poise and unusual strength. Her eyes smouldered with raw sensuality, but a cool gaze was, in reality, coldly calculating all about her, missing nothing. An almost feral intensity bubbled beneath the surface of the woman's outer control, too, a hot-blooded, firmly leashed near-_need_ for the exercise of violent savagery in combat.

Falcone stopped the smile as he studied her, but not the smirk. A woman with the strength inside to match the outer beauty, proving once more that beauty was not merely skin deep. His kind of woman, just like his wife... He wondered idly whether she was Mafioso, and whether he should have her killed or recruited. Or he could just sleep with her, of course, despite her evident youth, the young woman not appearing to be much past twenty. He'd had younger, some women would do absolutely anything to gain his favour...

"Uncle Carmine Falcone, meet Helena Corleone, my new Bodyguard. Helena, meet my Uncle Carmine" said Lucia, performing the introduction with effortless ease, a task that she was well used to. She regularly held society balls and family parties back in Chicago, managing them herself as a hobby. Her brother Johnny had all of the social skills of a recently raised Corpse unless he knew what to say or was on exceptional form, so, in her mother's own words, "Someone had to do it". It didn't mean that anyone but anyone but Carla Viti or Carmine Falcone ever dared to take him to task, of course.

Helena raised a hand, allowing Carmine to take it in his own and kiss the back even as his eyebrows rose. She tasted as good as she looked, he silently noticed. "The Corleone's, Lucia? They were wiped out fifteen years ago in New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco during the Bertinelli purge. How do we come to have one here?" he asked, looking at Helena as he released her hand. In his mind, he began detailing plans to have her killed if she even possibly became a problem.

The Corleone's were well remembered as a clan of inbred vicious, sadistic, psychopathic killers whose sanity was always in question. They had once been led by Viti Corleone, who had been in power at the same time Falcones father had started setting up his power base in Gotham. Viti had been the man who had finally led the Corleone's to their destruction, in fact, by having the heads of three of the four Families in his territory killed, horribly, slowly, because they refused to agree to a suicidally stupid plan he'd had involving getting the Police off of their backs once and for all.

From what Falcones father had known of the plan, the Governor of New York would have declared martial law, called out the National Guard and had the entire Corleone family arrested, damn the consequences, if the plan had actually gone ahead. Certainly, once it had emerged that the plan had involved blowing up half the Police stations in New York as an example to the NYPD, Falcone had made a mental note that all Corleone were crazy, untrustworthy bastards who should be shot on sight. The three families had had a similar idea in mind when, working together, they'd had the entire family hit, with complete success-apparently.

That made him interested rather than homicidal, however, because he was sure of two things about Helena Corleone on first sight. First, she _wasn't_ crazy, second, she appeared to be able to hold her temper, a first for any Corleone he'd ever heard of. Despite this, she was still clearly a killer with little to nothing in the way of morals, and, evidently, a trusted, skilled Bodyguard for Lucia Viti, his own niece. All of these things contradicted what he knew of the Corleone's, which saved Helena's life. If he knew someone like her with her family's reputation, normally the next step would have involved her being pulled being pulled out of Gothams sewers with a bullet in her brain.

Helena Corleone was a mystery wrapped inside an enigma to him, she should not be alive, should not even exist, yet she was standing in front of him with a smile on her face, her hand out to him. This time, he didn't stop the smile which appeared on his face.

"My father, Francis Corleone, was deported to Cuba ten years before the family killing. He came back to New York after hearing about the massacre, to be promptly shot in the head and found by a jogger in Central Park the very next day. He fathered me with a Cuban prostitute, Maria Graza Ignacia, but I owe neither him nor his family any obedience or debt for it. I am to be had for those who can afford my price, and I do not fail, as my mistress, Lucia Viti, knows" replied Helena, her accent strong Spanish tinged with America, with a slight bow as she withdrew her hand.

Falcone stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged. "I see, very well, but you may not hear this. Go and entertain yourself with Detective Flass, the Commissioner or whomever you choose. Lucia and I must talk" he said, cold eyes making it very clear that any argument would result in a great deal of pain. Helena didn't wait a moment longer than it took to smile. Turning, she strode easily away, a sway to her hips as her long legs shifted that Falcone watched with open admiration of the physical form, a well-shaped backside obvious too. Shaking his head, he turned to Lucia...

Bruce Wayne politely excused himself with an excuse that would have made the most socially inept in Gotham cringe-all part of the image, he thought, keeping a smile off of his face-as he saw the dusky beauty who had been watching Lucia Viti stride towards the elevator after a brief discussion with Falcone. Detective Flass, almost openly fondling the blonds breasts-she wasn't objecting-spotted her out of the corner of his eye, thought about it for all of a second, then simply turned to face the bodyguard as she stepped off of the balcony. He probably thought that the smile on his face was attractive to women, but it was very obvious that it had the opposite effect on anyone who looked beyond the muscle-which the dark woman, not speaking a word as she strode past him with a glance that suggested she'd stepped in more attractive things, obviously did.

The expression on Flass's face was worth framing as he got the brush-off from easily the most attractive woman within his reach, in any circle, especially when he turned around and got smacked on the cheek by the blond, while the brunette just looked hurt. Flass obviously knew how to soothe wounded egos, though, at least for those of less intelligence than some cats, and was back in both women's good graces within minutes, one woman to each arm, a cocky smile on his face.

Bruce just smiled at the whole display, silently revising his opinion of Flass's intelligence downwards yet again. The dark woman, though, was another matter. Seeing her move raised his eyebrows, slightly, as did her evident youth, clear now that he could see her clearly and closely. She couldn't be much over twenty, if she was even that old...unless skilfully applied make-up had been used to make her look older. However, he didn't think so from appearances.

She moved like a great cat, smoothly graceful, quick and powerful, eyes never still, taking in everything and everyone about her. Toned muscle shifted under smooth skin easily as she moved, while a slight smile almost literally illuminated her face. He could sense a sharp mind at work behind those bright eyes, just as he could see evidence of training in the art of war in her movements, her body language, a skill David Cain had taught him.

Given her very evident disdain for Flass, in fact, added to such a sharp mind and honed body, Bruce suspected that they would, just perhaps, actually have something to talk about when he met her. That it would be about the Falcones, the Viti's and the Maroni's, as well as anything she might know about the Skeevers and the Zucco's... Well, she _was_ Lucia Viti's bodyguard, it wasn't as though she'd be too surprised that someone, even a billionaire playboy like him, would be asking questions about the people she worked for.

He watched carefully as she stepped into the elevator and rode it down to the main floor of the huge ballroom, the Bellboy taking it back up again the moment she stepped out. He smirked as he noticed the men almost melt out of her way as she strode over to the bar, the woman more often than not shooting her looks ranging from jealous to murderous. There were a few lustful ones, too, but then that always happened, some of the older female aristocracy of Gotham had very definite tastes. They knew precisely what they wanted, and they always got it. He couldn't help but think that they'd regret attempting to force the issue in this ones case, though.

Reaching the Bar, she ordered vodka on the rocks, getting the bartenders attention just by looking at him. She received her order just as he reached her, "accidentally" brushing her shoulder a little too hard in an attempt to check her reflexes. The drink didn't spill a drop as she abruptly turned to face him, her skills going up in his estimates yet again.

However, abruptly face-to-face with the woman, even he was forced to stop and stare momentarily. At a distance she was stunningly beautiful, practically in your arms she was literally breathtaking. A perfect eyebrow rose as she looked at him, though, and her smile widened a little. "Bruce Wayne, the "Playboy Prince" in all his glory... What is this, Mr. Wayne, an attempt at getting my attention through force?" she asked, her English perfect even through her Spanish accent, only slight traces of an American one coming through. It took something less than a moment for him to work out that she wasn't born American at this, even as his best fake smile was abruptly plastered on his face.

"You know me! I'm not sure if I should be honoured or ashamed, the latter I should think. Buy you a drink?" he replied, a grin appearing as he spoke. He wasn't honestly surprised that she recognised him, because, of course, a public Bruce Wayne meant a private Batman, so he was often on a number of the newspapers around the worlds front pages. Nonetheless, it did mean that he had to play up his playboy image to the greatest possible degree. Of course, it could be worse, she might have thrown her drink in his face for "accidentally" bumping her arm.

"Try harder, I cost more than that. Start with a real smile, pretend I'm intelligent and we'll get on better. Don't and you'll learn the reality of the meaning of the word "instep". Well?" she said, softly, despite the hubbub of conversation all around them. He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. It was just money, after all.

"My dear, lets start again. My name is indeed Bruce Wayne, and you are?" he asked, offering her a hand to shake or take. She shook it firmly, with a strength which made it clear she was stronger than she looked, stronger than he'd anticipated. He made a mental note to be careful around her from now on, there was obviously more to her than was immediately obvious.

"Helena Corleone, pleased to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Can I call you Bruce?" replied Helena not letting go of his hand. He almost regretfully extracted his hand, not sure why she'd held onto him. After all, it wasn't as though he was truly considered such a catch that once a woman caught hold of him she'd never let him go-well, normally at least...

"Why would I ever deny such a beautiful woman anything? Of course you can. Now, if not a drink, perhaps a dance?" he continued, turning Bruce Wayne's considerable charm on full blast. His lips turned up into a full, real smile, his eyes lit up and his face shifted to full-scale animal attraction/lust animal with great stamina and technique. It had worked before, on a large number of women, both more and less than most people thought, he didn't doubt that it stood a better than even chance here. Especially with the band playing down at the far end of the hall, not loudly enough to disturb the families, of course, but easily loud enough to be heard and danced to.

She looked at him for several long moments, then knocked back her vodka like she was drinking water with a single shot. Bruce's eyes widened, he knew hardened drinkers who wouldn't or couldn't pull that trick for good reason, yet this woman knocked it back as though she'd started drinking when she was born and never stopped.

"Bruce, you know that the way to a girls heart is through her feet... Starting from the bottom and working your way up, good man. Of course a dance is in order, but your leading. So lead on" said Helena, shifting to one side and linking her left arm with Bruce's right one. Surprised, Bruce passed his champagne glass to a waiter without looking, then stepped smartly over to the dance floor, a fairly clear area near the band. Once there, Helena promptly took the lead, linking both arms around Bruce's neck at the wrists with a smirk as she shifted about in front of him, her breath warming Bruce's lower face.

She stood so close that it was inevitable, and unavoidable, that their bodies would brush one another closely, even as their faces remained so little apart that a breath would have brought their lips together. He was halfway tempted to kiss her anyway, she obviously expected him to, but, if he did that in full view of everyone, he'd have to take her home, too.

He didn't mind casual flings or short, sometimes intense, relationships, he'd had a few over the years, but it wouldn't be that with this woman. She was dangerous, just to begin with. He could sense barely controlled fires burning inside her, of a nature he strongly suspected concerned a temper and temperament he should actually be concerned about. Worse, she was Lucia Viti's bodyguard, bedding her would drag the Viti families attention to his door. The last thing he wanted, especially with his family's old link to Carmine Falcone himself. Worst of all, though, was the fact that, as he was well aware, he was strongly attracted to dangerous women, and he was unlikely to easily find one as stunning as Helena again. If he spent the night with her, he might not be able to just forget about it...

"Earth to Bruce, I know that looks for show so come out from behind it before I give you a reason to or you may regret it" said Helena, dryly, snapping Bruce out of his thoughtful state abruptly. A new tune was struck up which he automatically responded to, as did, not at all to his surprise, Helena. They moved together easily, graceful and balanced, each other's perfect counter.

The smile that appeared on the face of each of them at this was perfectly genuine. Bruce Wayne found release in activities such as dance when he couldn't perform activities more physical, while Helena Corleone always found the activity easily relaxing, dance being a part of her workout routine. Besides which, she had no problem relaxing into the arms of a playboy billionaire as they wrapped around her shoulders and lower back.

"Sorry, a million miles away there for a moment. So, your name is Helena Corleone, like Viti? If you don't mind my saying, also, you don't look remotely Italian. Spanish American at best, I'd guess" Bruce said, softly, not really needing to speak up despite the bands music they were so close together.

"Viti was my Uncle, long story. Momma and Papa are dead, though, so are the rest of that demented Clan, and I don't miss them at all. Cuban, American and Italian, actually, Papa Francis Corleone was half Italy, half USA. Mama was full Cuban, I'm told I get my looks from her. What about you, though? Just returned to Gotham, or so I heard up there, after, what, eighteen years away?" replied Helena, raising an eyebrow.

Bruce's face darkened, but he still made himself reply. "After the...death...of my parents, I travelled the world...seeking answers. They weren't quick in coming, I'm sorry to say, and I don't think that I'll _ever_ really understand...what happened, but I've moved on, now" he managed to say, speaking slowly. Then he smiled again, looking her in the eyes. "Lets talk about something apart from our families, shall we? How about, what do you do for a living? Don't tell me that you're a high-class Escort, either, we both know that that's not true" said Bruce, bracing himself for either a slap or a punch, depending on just how badly she was offended. To his surprise, she actually chuckled.

"Been there, done that, the sex was good, sometimes great, but it got boring after a while. More to the point, you age twenty years in two in that particular profession, so don't give up your day job as you Americans say. I'm Lucia Viti's bodyguard these days, it doesn't pay as well but it's a lot more fun. Besides which, she's not bad in bed herself-what? Oh, Bruce Wayne, don't tell me you never thought that kind of thing happened. For pities sake, a girls got to pay her way somehow, you know?" said Helena, a dreamy smile on her face at Bruce's expression, which was simply indescribable. When his expression didn't change for some moments, she sighed loudly. "Joke, Bruce? What I _meant_ is that sometimes I'm required to "entertain" her houseguests and some of them have told me that about her?" Helena continued, as Bruce's expression took a long time to shift back to anything approaching normal...

Bruce suspected that something was wrong the moment that Sarah Essen, Detective with the Gotham City Police Department, came into the ballroom. She was wearing her usual work clothes, light brown jacket and skirt, shoes of a darker brown and cream shirt, her golden GCPD badge hung around her neck on a piece of string.

Not dressing formally for the occasion when the party was called by the Falcone's was a good way to end up crippled if you came regardless, but, like Gordon, Essen was good police. She simply didn't care unless it was a part of the job description. Nonetheless, with flawless skin, sky-blue eyes, pure golden blond hair, striking looks and a curving, fit body added to an attitude which made most men get out of her way she could almost have carried it off through sheer presence. She wasn't there for that, though, instead quickly making her way over to Gordon, her direct superior-not, Bruce silently noted, the Commissioner, who would seem the logical immediate choice.

Ten years younger than the older woman, noticeably fit and healthy, the contrast between her and Barbara Gordon was instantly noticeable. Bruce caught a glimpse of Gordon wearing an odd expression for a split-second when he saw Essen that was gone before anyone else noticed it-not realising that a pair of sharp dark-brown eyes had followed his and caught exactly the same reaction. Essen went up close to Gordon and started talking to him quickly, his expression going from mildly bored and annoyed to worry to near outright panic as she went on. A murmur began to pass around the room as Gordon abruptly turned and made off with Essen, growing as he headed outside quickly even as he pulled off his bow tie, undoing his shirt collar and loosening his jacket as he moved.

Falcone appeared at the balcony rail, Commissioner Loeb by his side, clearly come to see what was going on. Loeb took one look at the retreating backs of Essen and Gordon before making a gesture at Flass, who was clear of the women and in the elevators before Gordon and Essen were out of the main doors. Bruce quickly turned to look at Helena, a mocked-up embarrassed look on his face. "I'm sorry about this, Helena, I really am, but my Butler, Alfred, gets nervous when things like this happen, so I should go and meet him before he comes in looking for me. I probably won't be back, I'm afraid, I'll have to go back to the Mansion to settle his nerves. He's getting a bit old, you see" said Bruce, playing the dull playboy with a Butler who was the only reason he was still sane, alive and intact to perfection. It had worked before, and it worked now.

Helena released him with a theatrical sigh, making sure to run her left middle finger along his right cheek in a fashion that made his breath catch regardless. "Boys and their toys...off you go then, Brucie, don't let me keep you" she said, almost waving him away, a look in her eyes he couldn't identify. He smiled at her in return, gallantly kissed the back of her hand, then made off through the crowd not far behind Flass, who was trying to catch up with Gordon and Essen and failing.

He didn't look back, so he didn't see Lucia Viti come to stand beside her Uncle by the balcony rail and look at the departing policemen as Flass went after them. Nor did he see Helena Corleone look up and straight at Lucia in question, a question which, when answered with the smallest of nods, caused Helena to abruptly disappear out of one of the other exits of the ballroom...

Alfred Pennyworth was an old man in his mid fifties, with receding still-black hair now mainly on the back and sides of his head, hard dark-brown eyes and a slim, aristocratic face. Tall and thin, although slightly shorter than his employer, Bruce Wayne, he was a former army surgeon and actor with the London theatre, a place where natural English reserve and control had found a home.

A man who rarely smiled or laughed, but who was the foundation his employer's secret double life as the Batman was built upon, Alfred knew more about Gotham City and its secrets than most Policemen and women ever would. As both Bruce Wayne and the Batman's confidants he was also the silent keeper of the Soul of the same City, one only the Batman could ever really defend. They never talked about it but, without his support and guidance after Thomas and Martha Wayne's murders-Bruce's parents-both knew that the Batman would never have existed.

Besides which, he was the man who put Bruce Wayne back together again after bad nights as the Batman, stitching cuts, padding bruises, occasionally repairing the uniform as required. He also drove the car that got Bruce Wayne or the Batman to and from anywhere in the City to anywhere else if necessary. He was the reality of the definition of an all-purpose assistant, and made it look so effortlessly easy that it would be ten years before both Bruce Wayne and the Batman realised just how important he had been in the early years, let alone admitted it.

Dressed in white shirt, black jacket, trousers, shoes and cap, Alfred was dressed exactly the same way as any other driver. He was also armed with a concealed heavy cosh, just like a number of the other drivers. Unlike almost all of the other drivers, though, he recognised the blond Detective Sarah Essen when she pulled up in an unmarked police car right outside the Gotham Playhouse ballroom. He also immediately understood that, judging by the very worried look on her face, something serious had occurred, which would undoubtedly require Batman's attention, which would get Master Bruce's attention very quickly.

He'd been reading the "Gotham Gazette" newspaper when Essen arrived. By the time she stopped the car and entered the building he had the keys in the ignition, the paper folded neatly on the passenger seat. Sure enough, Lieutenant Gordon came out with his wife Barbara on his arm very quickly, Essen right behind them. Gordon and Barbara got into Gordon's car quickly as Essen practically jumped into hers, starting the engine even as she strapped herself in. By the time her car was level with Alfred he'd started the engine, by the time he'd let off the brake Bruce was in the passenger seat behind him.

"Follow them, Alfred, but not too closely" said Bruce, even as he pulled down the concealed compartment behind the drivers seat, which spread across the entire car, and pulled out the carefully concealed uniform and gear of Batman. As usual, he reminded himself that he should be glad he'd had the foresight to get tinted windows even for a car used for formal occasions. "Very good, sir. Should I prepare a light supper for when you get home, or will you instead require my services in the cave?" asked Alfred, carefully keeping a set distance between their car and the ones containing Essen and the Gordon's.

"Go to bed, thank you, Alfred. You can expect to see me tomorrow unless I call you, in which case I will need your assistance" replied Bruce, practise enabling him to easily slip out of even formal clothes quickly into the uniform. He pulled on the cape and cowl, white-lined slits obscuring his eyes while not limiting his vision, then strapped on his utility belt before pulling free his grapnel line. Opening the door the opposite way to the designers intentions-a little extra gained a few favours off of the builders- Batman fired the grapnel at the roof of a nearby building with a perfect shot, the line almost instantly pulling him clear of the car, too fast for almost any eye to follow.

As he disappeared, the door shut behind him, Alfred smoothly changing direction towards Wayne manor. He sighed quietly, not sure that Bruce had put on the bulletproof shirt he kept insisting the Batman needed to wear. Well, Bruce was old enough to make his own decisions now, he supposed, even though Batman sometimes made him wonder...

Flass, Gordon knew without question, would be sent after them by Commissioner Loeb to find out just what they were doing in very short order. This meant that they had a very limited amount of time, but it wasn't as though there was anything he could do about it. He'd just have to do the best he could with what he had available, a fact which seemed to keep rearing its ugly head since he'd joined the GCPD. He'd expected corruption, yes, every police force he'd ever known had at least some of that, but the GCPD seemed the exception to every rule.

A Commissioner who was a friend of the cities Godfather of crime? Cops who regularly shook down people and businesses for protection money, who were never reported because the last time Internal Affairs had tried to do something about it the investigating officer had never been seen again? The FBI in the city being in the pocket of both the City Council and the Godfather of crime, even if some of their agents weren't? About the only thing that he was sure would rip open the festering wound Gotham was and get rid of the infection once and all was a call to FBI headquarters in Washington, once he had enough evidence. Evidence on everyone from Commissioner Loeb down, that was.

The problem with _that_ was the local FBI office could and would stonewall until the informant could be found, then he or she and his evidence would abruptly discover that they had been wrong about everything, just before they "committed suicide". Even if he got copies to people outside the city there was no guarantee that they wouldn't be found and dealt with. Even sending copies direct to FBI headquarters in Washington might not work, he didn't know how many friends and at what level of authority someone like Carmine Falcone might have, even inside the FBI itself. Senators? Same problem, the same for the Governor, the police or other officials-hell, he'd even considered placing a call to the National Guard, but he didn't dare.

No, the only way to change the system was from the inside out, somehow, but... Him, Assistant DA Harvey Dent, Detective Sarah Essen and officer Stan Merkel, the only people he was sure he could trust, against the whole Gotham establishment? He wasn't stupid enough to imagine that "easy" was a word which could be applied anywhere relating to what he and they were trying to do, but he was also too stubborn to quit. He'd seen and done too much to ever give in to the "bad guys", and he had no intention of starting now. Besides which, as his father had always said when he was a boy, "_You have to be one of the good guys, son, because there's **way** too many of the bad_". His old man had believed that enough to get between a woman and a bullet when a robbery had gone wrong, the police arriving too early for the robbers to escape. If it was good enough for his father to die for, then it was _damn_ well good enough for him.

His service revolver, still in its strap-on holster, was in the glove box. His shabby dark-brown overcoat was in the boot, sometimes cumbersome but it could keep him warm and dry. He'd been meaning to get a hat to go with it, but the Commissioner-deliberately, he didn't doubt for a moment-kept him so busy that shopping was a pastime only people who still had social lives got to indulge in. He could have asked Barbara, he knew, but she was confined to the house more and more of late, now in the eighth month of pregnancy, regular visits from Gilda Dent-Harvey's wife-being a large part of what kept her going.

Thinking of his being kept busy, though, brought his job back to mind-and his current case, the "Batman". A big man dressed up in a uniform of some kind that made him look like a Bat for some reason, that Gordon didn't doubt at all. The only question, really, was "why"? What on God's green Earth could make someone dress up like a bat and haunt the night like some kind of spirit of vengeance, make a man single-handedly declare war on the criminals of a city which could have given birth to the entire nature of the word "criminal"? He didn't know and was having a damn hard time guessing, but he had a few ideas, the murder of Bruce Wayne's parents, right in front of him, at age six, being one real possibility. On the other hand, given the nature of what he did opposed to the nature of Gotham City itself, Gordon sometimes had to wonder whether he should be trying to catch the man-or recruit him...

Just ahead, leading the way, Essen pulled her car over sharply into a side street, driving down a narrow road fast before cutting hard right back onto a main road. Gordon caught sight of a police cruiser parked by the side of the road ahead, lights off, settled as though the driver was taking a break for a cigarette, then Essen pulled up right in front of it, the front of her car stopping inches clear of the cruiser. He pulled up right behind her car as he stopped, turning to look at Barbara with an apologetic look on his face.

He reached out and ran the fingers of his right hand through her hair before he spoke, trying to calm her. "I'm sorry, Barbara, but Essen said that this was of extreme urgency, and she's one of very few people in the GCPD who really mean that when they say it. I'll be as quick as I possibly can be, just stay in the car. Merkel will make sure you're alright" he said, softly, to a small nod from Barbara. She just smiled slightly.

"Jim, I'll feel perfectly safe with you out there doing your job, that place was making me feel sick with all of the snobs in any case. You go, just take care" she replied, handing him his revolver, still in its holster. She then leaned forwards, kissing him lightly on the lips, before settling back down, trying to get comfortable in the car seat. Gordon gave her a reassuring smile, then stepped out of the car, clipping the holster to his belt as it was designed to be, Barbara being left holding his bow tie. He pulled his overcoat out of the boot and swung it on before going any further, slinging his badge around his neck in the same way that Essen had. It wasn't the safest idea, it could easily get in the way in a fight, but it was quick and convenient when you didn't have time to spare.

Merkel stepped out of the shadows of a shop not much further down the street, poor streetlights and dark shadows hiding him in his dark-blue police uniform well until he did. Merkel was in his early thirties, a fit man with black hair, blue eyes and a soft face that smiled easily, yet could go cold as ice even faster. He was also the kind of man who could be totally relied on, no matter what, once he'd thrown his lot in with someone, in this case Gordon and his allies. Gordon wouldn't have thought twice about putting his back to Merkel if the man had been holding a loaded gun on him for whatever reason, the same trust making him the automatic choice to guard Barbara. Harvey wasn't present, affairs with Essen were...complicated, and he couldn't do it himself. In Gotham, that really meant there was no one else. Besides which no one else could be called in on this, yet, if what Merkel had told Essen was true they were looking a t a very large amount of trouble.

Dark storm clouds were gathering overhead, shining silver at the edges in the light from the half-obscured moon. Somehow, he found this quite appropriate.

"Merkel, look after Barbara, please. Essen, come with me. Merkel, just how bad is this?" said Gordon, careful to make sure everyone knew their tasks before they got moving. They really _didn't_ have time to spare, especially of this was as bad as it seemed from the way Essen had laid it out.

"Take a look, Lieutenant, just expect the worst. Call was for a domestic, punch up and someone may have pulled a gun. There really isn't anything else to say" replied Merkel, softly, even as he moved to stand by Gordon's car. Gordon's eyebrows lifted at such a statement, but he knew better than to question it so went to have a look himself. Just before he reached the shop front he realised that it was actually a small bar, called "_ Bills Den_". Even as he stepped on the cracking glass, he also realised that the big front window had been shot out...

The inside lights were out, the streetlights weren't worth a damn. Gothams natural shadows, so deep and dark that they swallowed people as easily as lives, made matters worse, while the dark clouds obscuring the moons light made it simply impossible to see anything. Frustrated, Gordon pulled out a small hand-held torch and clicked it on-just as Essen did the same. He shot her a smile at the same time she looked at him-and had to look away fast as her sky-blue eyes threatened to swallow him whole. For Gods sake, your _wife_ is sitting twenty yards away...he told himself, even as his body reminded him, against his own will, just how good Essen's firm form had felt against his, that night in the rain when they'd kissed... He fought the memory away, focusing on what was to be seen inside the bar-his jaw dropped in shock, not something which happened often after everything he'd seen and done...

Inside, six customers and a bartender had been sitting down, having drinks at the bar while chatting presumably. Six people from every walk of life, ranging from builders to waiters from the look of it, dressed roughly in worn clothes. The bartender was a big man, very big, six and a half feet tall with the physique of a professional weightlifter, while only one of the men was anywhere close to the kind of build that one would call small. He didn't need to see any of them too closely to be sure of what he was looking at, though, he knew the type. They were all criminals of one form or another, and there was no telling just what they did to really pay the bills in Gotham until you caught them-not that that would be a problem with these seven men, because they were all dead.

The bartender looked to have seen the killer coming, being slumped half-over the wooden bar, clearly having been reaching for a weapon before he was killed. A hole in his head and two more in his chest had killed him, bullet wounds from a small pistol used by someone who could shoot straight by the look of it. His blood was all over the bar, traces of the inside of his head being splattered against the wall-length mirror behind him. The man nearest the window had dived for cover under a table, not quite fast enough. Bullet wounds to his back and legs had killed him, a trail of blood behind him where he had apparently still tried to crawl to safety after being shot. He was resting in a pool of his own blood, dead, empty, staring eyes looking straight at whoever had killed him. The third man to be killed had been shot in the head and throat, surgically placed shots that had to have killed him almost instantly. The fourth man was still clutching at his ruined throat, the back of his neck simply being missing, torn out by the bullet that had killed him, tearing out his windpipe in the process.

The fifth man was the small man, who, evidently quicker than the rest, had only taken a bullet in the leg before, apparently, limping to the back door of the bar. He'd been shot three times in the back to finish him off. The placing had disembowelled him, ropy red guts and internal organs lying on the floor beneath him, the walls and floor near him being drenched in blood. The sixth man had thrown a throwing knife at the shooter, but had to have missed since it had no blood on it where it lay, just outside of the shattered window. A single gunshot wound right between the eyes had finished him, a trail of blood running over his forehead and between his eyes, while the last man was doubled over, blood drenching the floor and bar near him. He'd been shot repeatedly in the chest and gut, almost an entire magazine had been used by the looks of the apparent injury.

It was a scene straight out of Hell, one that wouldn't have been out of place in the most graphic horror film ever made. Jim Gordon had never been the kind of man to shock easily, even less so after his time in Vietnam, but the scene he found himself staring at, after ten years in the police seeing nightmares that _still_ plagued him, stole his breath away without even trying. He felt light-headed momentarily as his mind tried to process what he was looking at, but he absorbed it quickly enough, a strong constitution aided by a sharp mind restoring his senses quickly.

Essen was worse, and not just because she was a woman and so less able to comprehend such appalling, wanton violence. Fifteen years younger, no one near as used to blood and death as he was, still relatively new on the job, she was still taking in just how far humans were willing and able to go in life _and_ death. She went completely white, only her eyes, hair and lipstick keeping any colour as she closed her eyes, turning away from the bloodbath and bracing herself against the wall. It was a long moment before he was sure she wasn't going to throw up, a longer one before she slowly turned back to face the scene, face pale but composed. She went up another notch in his estimation, she had more guts than a number of men he knew, he'd give her that.

"Its alright, Sarah, its perfectly natural to feel that way when you see something like this for the first time" said Gordon, stepping in through the shattered, shot-out window slowly and carefully, just in case there was something he couldn't see underfoot. Jagged-edged sharp shards of glass still remained in the window frame, more than enough to cripple or even kill if he wasn't careful. He heard the crack of boot on glass just behind him as he stepped inside, Essen following him in to watch his back. He was glad it was her, the only other person he would have trusted in the GCPD to ensure that he didn't have an "accident" in a scene like this would have been Merkel. Far too many people in the department wanted him out of the way, one way or another, for it to be healthy, like it or not.

"I know, I do... Jim, who or what did this do you think?" Essen asked, her accent strong German-American, automatically slipping into using her commanding officers first name as he was hers, something they normally did when alone. Originally it had been a mark of trust, but, more recently, it had come to mean rather more than that. Still, he didn't reprimand her for doing it.

"One person, small pistol, the element of surprise gained by doing both the unimaginable and the unthinkable. As to _why_...well, unless we've got another vigilante on our hands, one who kills this time, then I'd say the individual was simply a killer of some kind out to make their mark by massacring some criminals. A mob hit would have been more precise than this, besides which, these were all "workers", it would take someone with more money than sense to have them hit. See anything?" said Gordon, checking the nearest corpse for clues as Essen leant over the bar to see if anything was there.

"Bartender had a double-barrelled twelve-gauge under the bar, if he'd had time to get it out we'd have needed the Coroner just to identify the body. Baseball bat with a nail through it, too...wait...there's something else. Hold on a second" said Essen, climbing over the bar with a flash of toned long leg than Gordon couldn't help but appreciate. Kneeling down near the bartender, trying to avoid the blood, she picked up what looked like a card. She looked at it for a moment, a perplexed expression on her face, then stood and showed it to Gordon. It was a picture of Tenerife, full holiday season, the area crawling with tourists of all sizes, shapes and descriptions, bright sunshine burning down from cloudless blue sky far above. "I don't get it. Any ideas, Jim?" asked Essen, looking for any identifying marks or writing that wasn't normally printed on such a card and failing to find anything.

"Rule 101 for all Police officers, from Patrol to Commissioner, Sarah: Never ignore the obvious, it'll get you killed. My guess is that this is the killer left that as a "calling card" signature, if it had been where you found it when the killer started shooting it would be covered in the mans guts" replied Gordon, trying and failing to match the card and the scene it showed with any criminal he'd ever heard of. He'd known more than a few, heard of a lot more, but he didn't know any who signed their work like this.

"But what does it mean, then? We should take a holiday in Tenerife? The killer comes from or is going to Tenerife for some reason? The killer hates people being happy and is going to kill anyone who enjoys it, as shown by the picture? Something even more arcane? Is it a message at all, or just a sick joke? I could go on for a while like that, Jim, but I don't think that we'll get anywhere. What do you think?" asked Essen, spreading her arms in a gesture of helpless frustration.

"I think that this is more direct than that, Sarah. The card is either the _name_ of the killer or his _method_...Damn, I was hoping that he'd take longer" replied Gordon, frowning as he heard a screech of car tires, braking hard, outside. There was a bang as a car door opened and closed, then Merkel called out-to be answered by Flass's voice. Gordon rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to simply go out and punch Flass's teeth right out of his loud mouth with considerable effort. "Stay here, Sarah, I'll handle this" he said, then he strode back out of the ruined bar, his movements making obvious his anger.

The Batman looked down on the ruined bar with a detached interest, more interested in what Gordon and Essen were unknowingly telling him from across the street without realising they were doing it. Murder was a terrible crime, almost the worst that was possible, he knew that better than anyone. But, the dead were dead and could only tell you so much about what had happened to them, why it had been done and how. If the killer or killers were to be found, caught and brought to justice then he needed cold, hard facts to base his investigation on, not supposition fuelled by hatred, which is what it would be if he allowed himself to become too involved with the crime itself.

He was a great detective, one of the best, without question, he knew it without a trace of arrogance. But, he also knew better than to assume he knew everything just because of it. Gordon was a veteran Cop with ten years experience on the job, he was also sharp as the edge of a knifes and saw things that others didn't because they wouldn't allow themselves too. Nothing got past him, to the point that even the Batman's secret identity was in question, but Batman didn't really mind that. Gordon, as far as he could tell, was the one police officer in Gotham who could restore the police, and maybe the city with his help, to what it should be, a place of freedom and safety rather than one of violence and death. If one police officer in Gotham had to know who he was under the cowl, then he would rather it was Jim Gordon than anyone else, even Harvey Dent.

Detective Essen was another matter, even though she was unquestionably good police. Honest, if ambitious, loyal, sharp and resilient, she was also an excellent detective-who happened to be in love with Gordon. She meant well, but he questioned her loyalties where he was concerned. Gordon had come to Gotham and simply done what he did, Essen had entered the police in Gotham before Gordon had arrived, knowing they were corrupt without question, and, unlike Gordon, she couldn't have hoped to change them from the inside out. Gordon was trustworthy, reliable and the kind of cop Gotham deserved in Batman's opinion. Essen, although he wasn't sure about her, might not be.

Flass's abrupt arrival cut short Gordon and Essen's investigation, Gordon coming out of the shot up bar to shout at Flass as Flass tried to order Merkel to tell him what was going on. Batman left the miniature receiver hidden in his utility belt aimed at Essen's position, though, hoping that the detective would find something else worth mentioning-his instincts went off like a mine underfoot. He whirled, long black cloak moving around him like a gigantic pair of bat wings, cowl concealing his upper face, the dull light causing the silver bat-symbol on his chest to glow against the dull grey of his uniform shirt, but there was no-one there. He performed a three hundred sixty-degree sweep with eyes, ears and instincts alert but failed to spot or sense anything out of place at all. His sense of unease continued, though, and he knew it meant that he was being watched. Where from, though, he would have spotted or sensed anyone, even concealed, on the roofs nearby...?

In years to come he wouldn't make the same mistake again, but at that moment he felt like slamming his head into a brick wall, hard. Someone didn't have to be on the roofs to be looking at him, the ground was where most people walked, after all. He looked over the edge of the building-and only just rolled backwards in time before a bullet that would have killed him instantly had it connected shot past his head and arching chest as he somersaulted away.

He ran to the edge of the buildings roof ahead of where the shooter had to run to escape into the shadows of the alleys, fired his grapnel at a gargoyle and dived down off of the roof, swinging around and about the edge of the building with the kind of speed and grace that a Circus acrobat would have marvelled at. He was moving so fast by the time he came around the corner that the shooter would only have had time to glimpse a grey and black blur at best before he knocked them unconscious-his ears caught the sounds of two pairs of running feet just before he struck.

Two figures, the first in long overcoat and big, floppy-rimmed hat that made it impossible to identify them, the second in form fitting garb, very obviously carrying a gun in his or her right hand. The oddly-dressed individual was sprinting, running fast, clearly fleeing for his or her life, but the figure behind it was catching up faster, running like a Cheetah with long, loping strides that ate up ground as though this was nothing more than a casual morning run. He had a split-second to make his decision, allowed his instincts to make it for him and swung right over the first figure, slamming feet-first into the second. The figure, a woman he could now tell, saw him coming somehow and tried for a breakfall roll, aiming to go right under his assault. Fortunately her momentum, added to his, was too great and she didn't quite manage it, although she came far too close for comfort.

His feet clipped her upper shoulder, catapulting her right off of her feet and throwing her head over heels in a tangle as he snapped his line free, landing like a cat. Bouncing off of the ground, he performed a rolling flip-over without stopping and came up facing his opponent-only to find her already on her feet, gun aimed straight at his chest. "_Madre de_ **DIOS! IDIOT!**" snapped the woman, her voice strangely familiar, even as he drew out a handful of Batarangs, ready to throw, the anaconda poison on them, correctly measured, enough to drop anyone human for twenty-four hours... The moonlight momentarily illuminated her face, stopping him dead.

Pitch-black catsuit with unusual modifications, gauntlets with sharp silver knuckleduster studs, evidently reinforced chest and neck areas due to stiff bulk beyond natural excess, hard boots which were obviously part of the suits overall design. Weapons belt about the waist of the same design and colour as the suit, held by an indistinguishable flat buckle, designed to hold two handguns and a knife in a special sheath at the back, pouches on both upper arms that evidently held spare ammunition and probably other gear. Jet-black hair in a tight, plaited ponytail down her back, a physique and beauty that the uniform did nothing to conceal, dark, chocolate-brown skin-if he'd been Bruce Wayne, his jaw would have dropped. The only reaction the Batman had was to throw the Batarangs regardless. The bodyguard of Lucia Viti meant nothing to him right now, unless she was the killer, which Gordon could discover.

She span away from his assault with speed and grace just the right side of human, moving like a snake, but he was faster, and, of the three Batarangs he threw, only one even needed to cut the skin. One did, nicking her cheek, and he fully expected her to drop in two seconds flat, if not less. She didn't, a fact that made even Batman step backwards momentarily, then dive for cover as she shot at him, the crack of gunfire added to the screech of ricochet as the bullet sparked off of the building behind where he'd been standing alerting everyone in the neighbourhood to their presence. She used a word to describe him in Spanish that would have made Bruce Wayne stop and stare in sheer shock, then span and sprinted away after the fleeing figure once more, not waiting to see if he reappeared.

Three sets of running footsteps came from the direction of Gordon and company, meaning that he was coming. If he saw him, Batman was well aware, he would shoot to kill if he couldn't cripple, he was under standing orders from the Commissioner to bring Batman in or kill him one way or another. Besides which Flass, who always shot to kill, would be there too. Firing his grapnel at the buildings roof, Batman shot back up towards the sky, swinging after Helena Corleone and her prey before Gordon even came into sight, not having time to waste. He sprinted, rolled and swung over the rooftops of Gotham, moving across them all as though he'd been born to know them, catching up with the two runners so fast that he was on top of them before they realised it with ease.

Helena didn't see him coming this time since she was focused on her target, a big 45. pistol being almost impossible to aim at a run. The gun roared even as Batman jumped her once more, blood being literally blasted free of the left shoulder of the runner, spinning whoever it was half around and sending them crashing to the floor. Sure that no-one would be running with a bullet in their shoulder like that, Batman landed a kick to Helena's upper chest that would have cracked her ribs if her uniform hadn't been part body armour, driving her backwards, following through with a kick to the jaw that catapulted her from her feet. Blood exploded into the air from her mouth as her gun span from her hands, but she managed to turn the force of the blow into momentum, getting her hands under her behind her head and rolling right over, being back on her feet in seconds.

Batman followed through with a right feint followed by a left uppercut, but Helena wasn't fooled and dropped under the strike, neatly striking at his legs with a low kick. He jumped the counter and kicked her in the head, snapping her head back and nearly breaking her nose, but her left hand came around holding a steel, black plastic-handled knife before he could shift his position. The six-inch blade slammed into his right side up to the hilt before she ripped it free, wrenching a grunt of pain out of him, red blood-his-drenching the blade.

She reared up and stepped away fast, blood running from mouth and left nostril, left side of her face heavily bruised but her eyes clear. Her chest and shoulders had to be hurt from the force of his earlier strikes but she moved as though she'd been doing nothing more physical than a gentle workout, a cold smile on her face as he almost stumbled. Thankfully the blade wasn't particularly long, added to which she'd missed anything vital, so he'd been fine once he'd had time to patch it. For the time being, however, he was bleeding quite heavily, so he needed to end this quickly. He whipped a high kick at her head, span right around without stopping as she dodged and lifted completely off of the floor, throwing his entire weight into a drilling kick that should have broken her left arm. She moved too fast, though, almost dodging out of the way, so he only managed to numb her arm and force her to drop the knife.

She countered with an elbow to the throat which wasn't with her good arm, a knee to the groin adding to a feint that left his face right under her head butt, such force being behind the assault that he saw stars and everything momentarily faded to black before snapping back into focus. He was lucky she hadn't fractured his skull, even though the assault had obviously hurt her too, but he'd had enough.

He was one of the most highly-trained individuals in the art of war on the planet, he'd been taught by killers, Monks and all manner of other people, some of whom weren't even known-or supposed to-exist. There was no human on the face of the planet he couldn't match or defeat in single combat that he knew of, and, trained or not, this woman was no different. She knew what she was doing very well thanks to training and some experience added to, he suspected, natural talent, but enough was enough.

No more holding back to avoid crippling her, he let the Bat out wholly to do what needed to be done. She tried a low-high-low double-punch kick combination to get past his guard and crush his windpipe, but never got near. A gloved hand shot out, caught her left wrist and stopped her punch dead before twisting savagely, forcing her almost off of her feet to prevent her arm from breaking. His free hand smashed forwards and down once, twice, three times, cracking bone, mashing lips and flesh, blood erupting behind every punch as his vicious assault drove her to her knees even as she began to sag in his grip. Wary of how resilient she'd proved he hit her again with a resounding crack, her right cheekbone snapping-she toppled at last, falling limp to her knees, only held half upright by his grip. He shoved her off with his foot, just to be sure-the counter nearly broke his right ankle, throwing him completely off-balance and landing him on his back, momentarily helpless. She was on top of him, her hands around his throat, her blood dripping onto him as he feebly tried to throw her off-a gunshot sounded.

Something warm and wet splashed across his face as Helena's body jerked, then she slumped across him, collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. This time it was for real, she was so close to him that he could see her face clearly. Her eyes were almost shut, fluttering weakly, not focused on anything, her breathing was ragged, beyond what his beating should have inflicted on her. Despite her dark skin she looked somehow pale, and, as he slowly realised, something warm and damp, coming from her, was staining his uniform shirt and trousers. It was splattered across her face. Her own blood, far too much of it, was splattered across her face...

He pushed her aside and rose to his feet, hearing running footsteps approaching-and leaving. Not believing it, he turned to see what he suspected-sure enough, despite a small pool of blood, the figure Helena had been chasing was gone. It was starting to rain as he tried to rise to his feet, Helena's almost-successful attempt to strangle him added to the exertion of the violent fight having taken more out of him than he realised. Standing, he checked her pulse, weak and slow but steady, she was in no immediate danger of dying. She'd been shot in the lower back, just under where her body armour protected her, evidently. The bullet had passed through her just above her hip, probably hit at least one internal organ in the process, the small intestine he guessed, and exited through the front. The wound was clean but serious, and, thankfully, with Gordon and Essen on their way at speed, they would call an Ambulance for certain.

He paused a moment to think, not sure what came next with Gordon coming fast. Why had she been chasing that figure? Why had she called him an idiot for getting in her way, to the point that she'd break off a fight with him in an attempt to catch whoever it was? On a hunch he checked the wound-small bullet injury, single shot, shooter had to be good to have got past the armour-his mind made the connection and he was up and running in less than second. The shooter at the bar had used exactly the same kind of weapon from what he'd heard, and if Helena had somehow caught out the killer, he _had_ been an idiot...

Whoever the killer was they were loosing blood, although they couldn't have been as badly hurt as he'd thought. People didn't run around with a 45. slug in them if he knew anything of medicine, with very few exceptions, and the small, bleeding figure who'd been wearing the clothes to disguise him or her was not one if he was any judge. Small patches of red blood, quickly going pink in the rain, led him through two more alleys-he heard a car start up, then drive off, with screeching tires showing the drivers urgency. He arrived too late to do anything more than watch it disappear, the car weaving through traffic, making it impossible to identify except for make and colour, meaning he'd only recognise it if he saw it again himself.

He fired off his grapnel line and returned to the roofs quickly, before anyone saw him, not wasting any more time. He'd made a serious error here and lost the prime suspect in the killing of no less than seven men, that was simply unacceptable. He would make sure that Helena survived to get to Hospital, then he had some real detective work to do...

Jim Gordon had half-expected a full-scale Gangland shootout to be breaking out when he heard the shot, but he didn't hesitate in drawing his gun and running towards the sound regardless, Essen right behind him, Flass well back. Merkel was already calling in for backup by the time Flass disappeared from view, as Gordon had known he would, so all that the two-no, three he corrected himself-of them had to do was not get killed until it arrived. When he saw the scene, however, he had to simply stop and stare.

It looked like someone had gone berserk with a shotgun. Blood pooled in two different places, one near, one far, the far one being much smaller than the near. A small trail of blood that was quickly being washed away by the rain led away from the smaller pool, heading into a dark alley in a pattern that made clear the injured individual had somehow been running. The second looked considerably more serious, though, the only kind of injury that caused someone to bleed like that was most commonly mortal, an arterial injury or worse. In this case, though, there was no unfortunate lying comatose halfway to death, instead whoever it was had disappeared down a manhole cover into the sewers before they arrived. Whoever it was had been walking, though, which almost frightened Gordon.

Only the very toughest bastards and some of the most dangerous of all of the one's out there it was his job to catch walked around with injuries like that for any length of time, even fewer of them survived. If two individuals were walking around with holes in them that did this, then they were both likely to survive. That meant serious trouble, whether or not they'd be up to doing anything for a solid month after this...

"Damn" said a mans voice, Flass, stating his obvious shock aloud at the scene, even as he belatedly arrived. "Who the Hell walks around with holes that leak like those in them?" he continued, holstering his pistol and looking around him.

"Detective Flass, let me give you a hint, don't ask what you don't want to know. Essen, you and Flass look around for anything helpful, but be careful, we don't know what happened to whoever did this yet" said Gordon, shooting a look at Flass to be sure he got the message. Flass rolled his eyes and did everything but give Gordon the finger in return, but he had the sense to start doing as ordered. Gordon was glad of that, the Commissioner wouldn't have been happy if he'd had to charge Flass with insubordination yet again-even though a boot to the balls would have been so much more satisfying, he couldn't help but think.

"Lieutenant" called Essen abruptly, standing near the far pool of blood. Gordon walked over to her, to see her looking down at something by her feet. She looked up at him, shooting him a smile when she was sure Flass couldn't see her. "Gun, 22. pistol, taped handle, looks like a baby-bottle nipple was used as a silencer. Right size gun for the bar killing, might have done this to. Only question is who used it, do you want me to go and get Merkel to call this in so that we can find out?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't wait for me" replied Gordon, nodding as Essen grinned-she was the same rank as Flass and he was more experienced than her, he should have been chosen to do it and they both knew it-and strode off quickly. Gordon kept a close eye on Flass anyway, just in case. You never knew with the Commissioners second in command. He sensed movement, Flass didn't, but it was up on the rooftop so he ignored it. Probably just Batman again, a vigilante he was coming to appreciate the methods of given the way the GCPD operated...

It took him five minutes to work out what had happened, ten to patch the injury in his side, an hour to track her to the nearest Hospital. In Gotham, Hospitals were generally well run, fully stocked and staffed because of the sheer level of casualties that they received, a fact that made sure the Doctors of Gotham had a great deal of practise with almost every kind of injury imaginable. Gang street battles, drunken punch-ups in bars that turned nasty, shootings, punishment beatings and more always kept them full. When things got particularly bad they overflowed into corridors, car parks and any large buildings they could commandeer nearby.

Things got nasty in Gotham whenever Commissioner Loeb decided to temporarily clear the streets, a breathtakingly simple method of "reassuring" the public. When he gave the order police would just quietly disappear for a while and let everyone kill each other before reappearing to mop up any survivors, using excessive force, riot gear and paramilitary tactics as often as not.

Fortunately, at the moment the Commissioner was far too busy worrying about the new vigilante-Batman allowed a smile to briefly cross his face-his links with the five families of Gotham and just how much control and influence he still had on the streets. Batman was running rings around the police, regularly humiliating the city Godfather, Carmine "The Roman" Falcone, and stopping every crime he could, from purse-snatching to arms smuggling.

With better than half the GCPD on the take every dent made in organised crime meant less money channelled to the Commissioner-he had a 10 "tax" rate that had to be paid before any member of the GCPD was allowed to put the screws on anyone-which angered the families, since it cut into their profits too. Added to pressure from within the department applied by the up-and-coming incorruptible Lieutenant Jim Gordon and his ally, Assistant DA Harvey Dent, it came down to the fact that the Commissioner was simply far too busy to worry about anything as mundane as street crime as things stood.

When things were busy in Gotham General Hospital, let alone around it, finding a single person in the mess would have required the entire GCPD to check face by face with photographs as references. At the moment relatively quiet, it was fairly simple to find the room she'd been put in. He passed through halls like a ghost, was absorbed by shadows and drifted like a Wraith right past people talking about the way the "freaks" seemed to be taking over Gotham these days. A quickly examined medical report told him where she was, even adding that she was now out of surgery and stable. Fractured right cheekbone, severe facial bruising, impact injuries to shoulders and left arm comparable to being struck with a two by four by a strong man, bullet wound through left lower chest, minor injury to small intestine-that she'd evidently made her way here with those kind of injuries made him wonder.

She wasn't Metahuman, he'd have been able to tell that. More to the point, he knew that _he'd_ have been very glad of the automatic systems on the Batmobile that would have gotten him back to the cave with a single command with those kind of injuries. There was no longer any question in his mind, he was dealing with either a truly exceptional individual or more than met the eye here. He needed to know which, though, in case an anonymous hint to Gordon became necessary.

After certain mountains in Asia scaling the outside of the Hospital walls, especially with the aid of the Bat-rope added to numerous hand and foot holds created by worn brick walls, barely presented a challenge, even in the steadily worsening weather. His cloak whipped about him like a living thing in the wind even as the now-pouring rain drenched him, the massive amounts of water beginning to wash off the blood still clinging to his uniform. The uniform was, of course, waterproof, but blood wasn't water, it was considerably thicker and stuck to a variety of surfaces as it dried, even his uniform. He would have had to get Alfred to scrub it thoroughly to get it clean again and, with both the killer and Helena still on the loose, if likely hospitalised, he had had no time to waste, let alone any inclination to do so.

So thinking, he reached the right window, paused a moment to be sure that there was no-one waiting for him just inside, then slowly, carefully used a lock pick to undo the old latch, balancing his elbows on the windowsill, his feet against the wall. The latch went easily, the window eased up and open even more easily despite its creaking age, then he was inside. He landed on his feet without a whisper of sound, cloak swirling, then settling behind him. Under normal circumstances he would have worried about the window being opened from the outside with a click, or the sudden gust of cold wind, either or both of which could have woken up the individual inside. He wasn't here, though, because the woman in question, lying on her right side, facing away from the window, was clearly sound asleep, likely sedated given her injuries.

She was attached to a Monitor that was monitoring her vitals, all of which were a perfect example of a human woman resting and recuperating after a traumatic experience. A dark-brown handbag rested in a chair to her right, close to the closed door, evidently hers, while a fair-sized cupboard presumably held her clothes. She was only wearing a pure-white hospital gown, one which had slipped off of her left shoulder, revealing soft skin that only emphasised her physical attractiveness. This was despite her long hair being curled loose and tangled about her head due to her posture, which, in fact, only added to the allure somehow. His hand reached out to brush the tangled hair smooth once more...

He stopped himself the moment he realised what he was doing, but the action disturbed him. He knew Bruce Wayne was attracted to the sultry beauty-there had been very few people in the ballroom who hadn't stared at her, or at least made sure to get a good look at her chest or legs-but this was far, far from the best time to indulge that, to even consider indulging it. He needed his mind clear and focused on the task at hand, not wondering-he stopped that train of thought there, stepping closer to her.

He needed to prevent her crying out when he woke her, there would unquestionably be a number of people who would raise the alarm or come running to see what was happening in a Gotham Hospital at the sound of a scream. Carefully, he reached his left hand out to cover her mouth, touching her shoulder-he felt the faintest pressure at his throat, glanced down and saw the dull lights of the hall, coming in around the doorframe, glittering along the length of the knife in her hand, the blade of which was pressed against his throat. The uniform wasn't protection against knives, let alone bullets. If she'd pressed only a fraction harder she'd have cut right through tough cloth and severed his windpipe, opening his jugular veins in the process...

He stood very still as her head came around, dark skin concealing most of the bruising except for obviously swollen lips and a half-closed right eye, to stare him in the face. Her lips parted slightly in an almost feral grin, even as her right hand came clear of the bedclothes, also holding a six-inch knife, evidently her favourite kind. "I don't sleep alone, Batman, especially not when in enemy territory, let alone when I've just been beaten up by a man dressed up as a Bat. I've seen you fight, so I have no guarantees, but I'd still like to hear you give me a reason not to try and cut your throat for this" she said, softly, a glint in her eyes he didn't like.

"I'll give you two. First, I'm the only other person who saw the killer, as you did, therefore I am _the_ only person who could help you find and catch whoever or whatever it was. Secondly, if you kill the Batman in your Hospital bed even Commissioner Loeb won't be able to cover it up. More to the point, it will be cheaper for Lucia Viti to get a new bodyguard than for her to bail you out and use her influence to get the charges against you dropped. You know I'm telling the truth, so if we are both intelligent about this you'll realise that the best thing you could do is answer my questions and let me leave unhindered, after which you may or may not see me again. Well?" said Batman, face completely expressionless as he stared at her.

She lowered the knife slowly, then put both atop her bedside table without looking at it. She looked very closely at him, then sat up, carefully settling herself against her pillow to avoid tearing her stitches. She kept staring at him for some seconds, then shrugged. "The Doctor says that I'll be out of Hospital in a week, and I'll only have a scar where I was shot in a month, _if_ you care at all. As to questions, you don't know what you're getting into with me, no matter what you think you know. Regardless, I work better with an answer for an answer" replied Helena, not stopping staring at his face for a moment.

"You are in no position to make demands or threats, so I would suggest that you answer my questions and forget you ever saw me" said Batman, his expression changing from neutral to threatening, his gaze one that would, in years to come, frighten the life out of hardened, professional criminals without his even having to lay a finger on them. Helena Corleone just looked at him, then actually smirked, shaking her head.

"You've been taught by an expert, I see. Well, I was born and raised by a master so don't bother, you won't get anything out of me like that even if I'm dying on my feet. If you want to question me try courtesy, I respond far better to chocolates than men with guns" she said, winking at him. Batman just frowned, then reconsidered his approach before proceeding.

"Alright, lets start again. Who are you, and why are you really in Gotham?" he asked, his tone of voice making it clear that she _would_ answer his questions, or he would find out other ways, which she would not like. He could go back to the cave and look her up, he knew, with the Master Computers at his disposal it wouldn't take long and the results would most likely be more accurate than anything she told him. Despite that, he still wanted to hear what she had to say for herself first.

"What I told you about my name and family was true, and I _am_ Lucia Viti's bodyguard, it just so happens that there's more to it. A _lot_ more, but your going to need a better reason for me to tell you anything at all than to help you catch that lunatic if you want me to enlighten you. _Don't_ go looking for me through a computer, either. If you do, I will turn up dead by the end of the week and you will have the FBI, CIA and NSA among others looking for you as their top priority, dead or alive. Now, you were saying?" said Helena, raising an eyebrow as she looked him right in the face, his mask concealing his eyes, preventing true eye contact.

Batman considered what she'd said for the space of ten seconds, then spoke. Unlike Bruce Wayne's soft voice the Batman's voice was like a tomb being opened, cold, deep and, somehow, old. He could fill it with power when he spoke without doing anything more than changing the tone, making it overbearing and terrifying rather than simply cold and emotionless, but he doubted that he would need to here. More to the point, he wasn't sure that it would have worked. He didn't know anything about Helena's background, and, until he did, he resolved not to take any chances he didn't have to.

"My mission is to cure this City of the disease which plagues it in the form of crime and its masters, the five families. I will not kill, but apart from that I will do _anything_ to succeed. You now know as much about me and my mission as almost anyone alive, so start talking or I will discover what you know by other means" said Batman, his cold gaze, staring straight at her, keeping her attention throughout as he spoke. She looked at him for several long seconds, then shook her head.

"I _see_, a _true_ hero. A line in the sand, for the greater good and all of that bull. Batman, I know experience when I see it, you've seen just how bad this world can get somewhere along the line yet you're here to talk about it. Remember _that_ before you _ever_ go preaching to anybody else, some people aren't as nice as me" said Helena, her voice almost a growl as she stared at him. "But, alright, you've said your piece, now I should say mine. Where do you want me to start, assuming that I have your word this doesn't leave this room?" she continued, a look in her eyes he couldn't quite pin down. He didn't like her tone, but he couldn't blame her for demanding assurances. Even though, of course, he was limited by necessity.

"Yes. Who do you work for, why are you here and do you know anything about the shooter?" asked Batman, wondering whether she'd take him at his word. She evidently did, since she paused to collect herself before answering. She needn't have worried, since, as both friends and allies would discover in later years, once the Batman gave his promise on anything, there was no question left to be answered.

"I need a cigarette...all right, have you ever seen this before?" asked Helena, softly, clearly suspecting that she might be overheard. As she spoke she pulled down the front of her Hospital gown, almost baring her breasts, passing the fingertips of her right hand over her left breast. Batman wondered whether she was trying to titillate or just distract him for a moment, until her hand cleared the area touched and he saw the symbol, gleaming against her dark skin. An eye, a perfect horizontal oval, inside a pyramid surrounded by a circle, all coloured a very dark red-gold that made it almost appear to be burning against her skin. His eyes widened underneath the mask, that was very close to the _last_ symbol he'd ever expected a member or employee of any of the crime families to be bearing...

"Yes, the _Oculus Infernum_, the Eye of the Damned, symbol of the Blood Cadre. Precisely how did _you_ come by it?" he replied, quickly rethinking everything he thought that he knew about the woman. There was no longer any question as to how she'd almost matched him in a fight despite actually being younger than him and so, supposedly, less experienced and well-trained.

The Blood Cadre were notorious within every intelligence community on the planet for producing the worst of the worst to do the unimaginable without even thinking about it. Their training methods weren't human, but if one survived everything they put one through then the individual would only just be human his or herself. It explained her speed and strength, well above what even he would have considered the human average. Not to mention her fighting skill, almost a match for his after eighteen years of training on his part, despite her youth. He was lucky to be alive if the Cadre's reputation was justified and, if she was any example, he no longer had any doubts it was.

"I'm impressed, very few people on this planet could see that symbol and name it without having to think twice, mainly because most of them are dead and buried from before I was born. Well, I got it when I was seventeen, but I won't bore you with the details of how that happened, just the skinny. I went through the CIA to the Joint Intelligence Service on a recommendation for outstanding, exceptional work as a _fucking_ assassin. There, I worked for the Unusual Tasks Commission for a little while until the Blood Cadre paid a visit one night. The rest, as they say, is history-oh, and it's a brand claiming ownership, not a mark to warrant respect. Everyone who works for the Blood Cadre is either a psychopath, completely insane or something worse, no-one else would do what we do, not even the most demented, committed patriot the CIA could ever find and recruit" Helena replied, her expression unreadable as she evidently recalled memories she rarely, if ever, dwelled on.

Then she grinned, "Oh, and I'm the latter, just so were clear. Blood will out, as the old saying goes, and I'm the living dead example. Don't like me, you'll regret it" she continued, her face showing an intensity of hatred he couldn't easily imagine. He hated criminals like the scum they were, he had since his parents were killed by them in front of him when he was six, a deep, unending pain in the back of his mind as though he had been shot himself never letting him forget. A pain that sometime burnt white-hot as almost insane levels of rage burnt through him at the worst of times, but he couldn't imagine just what was going on behind Helena Corleone's eyes to get that level of hatred staring out at him, when he was completely sure it wasn't directed at him. Could it be directed at her? He wasn't sure that he wanted to know just what could make someone hate themselves like that...

"I...see, you work for the government, then. Why are you with the crime families?" he asked, careful of what he said to her now. If she was a trained assassin of the calibre that seemed evident there was no telling what else she'd been taught to do. She could have been taught detective skills as well, for example, which _might_ endanger his identity...

"What do you _think_?! Undermine them from the inside out, work my way up through the ranks and, eventually, take power myself, or manoeuvre in someone-or-other. _Then_ use them and their resources to fulfil the Cadre's aims and purposes, after them the governments. Make no mistake, though, I will do what they tell me, or act as I see fit to achieve my mission. "_Failure is not an option_" since I'm dead no matter what if I don't succeed, second chances are for those who care. At least this way I can live in a little luxury for a while, and the companies fairly pleasant" sad Helena, rolling her eyes as she grimaced.

"Before you ask what I mean by that, try living around Washington pen-pushers for a month kicking your heels while sleeping with them every night before the appointed time comes and you can finally slit their throat while their out for the count. By the time its over you'll have wanted to open your wrists twenty-nine times out of the thirty days available. I may be exceptionally resistant to pain, but I can loose my mind with the best of them" Helena continued, looking straight at Batman's face again. Not sure how to respond to such a tirade, let alone such a torrent of sickening revelations, Batman had to pause before considering how he could or would reply. It was fairly simple once he thought about it, though.

"I see. Did they engineer your resistance to pain, drugs and the like? Or is there more to that?" he asked, half wishing that he hadn't given his word. No one like this woman had a place in his City, but he couldn't force her out with her connections and knowledge and she wouldn't leave while the families still existed in Gotham. Gordon couldn't touch this kind of set-up even if he wanted to and could prove it, nor could the FBI. The JIS could and would eliminate everyone involved, including their own agent or agents, to make sure that any story like this was simply dismissed as a conspiracy fairytale, like they always were.

Even he wasn't immune, nor was Bruce Wayne. No-one would mourn a lone vigilante in a corrupt city like Gotham, while he was well aware that some of the most famous celebrity killings, going back to the fifties if not further, had been "managed" by the CIA to ensure that only what the government, or, on occasion, the Company itself had wanted known was. His absolute priority was Gotham, he would have to wait until a group or organisation of some nature that could do something about it all came into existence to do something about it. One that he could help, openly or discreetly, perhaps...

"Nope, got daddy dearest to thank for that. Seven year old me wanted "love" and attention from him after he killed my mother, leaving her to die in agony over three days in front of me from a beating which covered the room in blood, which I saw. This was Cuba, so he was more interested in going out and torturing the woman next door while fucking her brains out and shooting her husband, boyfriend or whatever if they tried to protest. He used a muscle relaxant LSD cocktail overdose, enough to kill three grown men I was later told, to shut me up and give me "sweet dreams". I was left comatose for a week in such a state that everyone thought I was dead. When I came around a old lady who'd been reading the last rites over my body had a heart attack and died. First person I ever killed" she said, pausing to shake her head as her eyes closed for several long seconds.

"Ever since drugs, poison, alcohol, tobacco, the whole profession have had absolutely no effect on me at any dosage level. My pain tolerance isn't human and I'm told that I have latent PSI abilities, empathic, created by the LSD literally reorganising my brain chemistry. As far as Blood Cadre meds can tell my central nervous system was permanently changed by such a huge overdose, to the point that my body absorbs drugs et all like most people take in food and water and deals with them the same way. Daddy dearest took away a chunk of my humanity during what sort-of passed for my childhood, if you want to be that blunt about it. Satisfied? Or do I need to prove it?" asked Helena, a look in her eyes that he didn't like. He'd already decided not to ask for her help with the killer on point of principal, he was sure that he could catch whoever it was without her help. After all, a recently received gunshot wound to the shoulder from a 45. wouldn't be easy to conceal.

"No need, I believe you I'm afraid. You do understand, though, that I will not allow the crime families to remain in Gotham?" he asked, his voice cool. She just smiled, almost sadly, relaxing into her bed more fully.

"I know that you won't, Batman, I also know that your only one man. By all means do your best, but I don't doubt for a second that we'll see each other again in less than pleasant circumstances. Just so were clear, I never saw the killers face, so I can't help you there. Good luck, by the way, you'll need it. Good night" she replied, a distinct dismissal if he'd ever heard one.

He didn't say another word, going out of the window before she'd replaced her knives safely under the pillow, just in case, with such utterly silent speed that she barely even sensed the movement. He didn't need to consider her words, he'd thought much the same thoughts before himself, more times than he wanted to remember, and had come to the conclusion that he either would or wouldn't succeed at his mission regardless of what others thought. He could help Gordon, perhaps even the GCPD one day, but the mission, in the end, was his and his alone, he would succeed or fail through his own actions, or the lack of them...

Helena's head came around sharply as the room door opened, her body tensing, but she relaxed as the nurse-young woman, mid-twenties, auburn hair and grey eyes-put her head around the door with a frown. "Did I hear voices-? Miss Corleone, you were told not to exert yourself" said the nurse, spotting the open window as the rain and wind came in through it abruptly.

Helena just grinned at her, raising empty hands in mock-surrender. "Sorry, I just needed some exercise. I was rehearsing what I'm going to say to my boyfriend about this when I see him anyway" she said, softly, her evident good humour taking the edge out of her words. The nurse just frowned, then sighed.

"I'd say that you need a new boyfriend, but that's just my opinion" the nurse replied, walking over to the window and shutting it firmly, latching it shut again. "Anyway, if you don't get up and move around you'll be well enough to do something about your boyfriend in a week, as promised. Just rest now, alright?" she continued, speaking softly.

"I know, I know, I'll follow Doctors orders and all that" replied Helena, before adding, with a wink, "But I like the one I've got far too much for that". The comment made the nurse look at her with an expression somewhere between contempt and pity, but then she shook her head, smiled as Helena got back beneath her blankets and walked out, closing the door behind her. Helena reached out, turned the lights out, then snuggled into her bed, allowing her wounded body to rest at last. As her eyes closed, however, she murmured one last thing. "You could have at least closed the window behind you, Bruce..."

(_Not_) **The End**


End file.
